The op had gone smoother than anyone expected. Intel was clean, the extraction tight. No casualties, no drama—just swift, brutal efficiency. Task Force 141 was riding the high, and for once, they let themselves breathe.

Soap dragged everyone to a club just outside the city. Loud music, cheap drinks, and a crowd thick with bodies. It wasn’t Ghost’s scene—but you? You fit right into the pulse of it. You were on the dance floor within minutes, sweat glistening on your skin, moving like the night owed you something.

Ghost sat in the shadows near the bar, mask still on. He didn’t drink. He didn’t talk. He just watched.

You danced like you’d shed the mission, the war, the weight of it all. Free. Fluid. Dangerous in a way the battlefield never revealed. And Ghost couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Soap elbowed him. “You gonna stare all night or grow a pair?” he grins, giving Ghost a look.

Ghost didn’t answer. He just took another sip of his untouched whiskey.

Your eyes found him across the crowd. The lights stuttered over your face, and that smile—the one you only wore when you wanted to drive him insane—slid into place. You moved closer, hips swaying, never breaking eye contact.

He felt the tension coil tight in his gut.

You stopped right in front of him, close enough to feel the heat coming off his body. You leaned in, breath warm against his ear.

“Didn’t know ghosts had hearts that beat this fast,” you whispered softly, your voice a gentle coo in the otherwise booming club.

His hand found your waist, just enough pressure to remind you what he was capable of. “You’re dangerous,” he rasped.